


Aji

by mika60



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Cooking, First Times, Fluff, M/M, twin instincts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29403213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mika60/pseuds/mika60
Summary: Two brothers, two flavors, and one passage into a teammate’s heart.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 44
Kudos: 319
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	Aji

**Author's Note:**

> This is my offering for [SakuAtsu Fluff Week Day 1: First Time](https://twitter.com/sktsfluffweek), based on [the Furudate sketch promoting Haikyuu Volume 44 going on sale](https://twitter.com/haikyu_com/status/1290570651233730560)!
> 
> Aji (味) means “flavor.”
> 
> Hope you enjoy and feel free to [hit me up on Twitter](https://twitter.com/_mika60_)!

“Sorry, I’ll pass on the onigiri.”

Osamu stills at the announcement, adept hands partway to molding a triangle of rice that may not find destination.

One counter and two steps apart, Sakusa Kiyoomi regards him with a placid stare, a raised forearm adding weight to his stubbornness.

“I don’t want to eat one prepared by someone else.”

The explanation is all logic, and all expected - it hearkens back to visuals of a high schooler huddled in the corner of countless rooms. He engages in the worst attempts at camouflage known to man, a bright uniform always failing his goal.

_Omi-kun doesn’t like to be touched._ Atsumu had whispered to him back then, feigning omniscience of all their rivals. _And he probably doesn’t wanna touch anyone, either._

In the present, said twin is still gobbling down his share of the complimentary food, seemingly oblivious to this exchange. But two decades on, Osamu knows his brother far too well - knows that an alert Miya ear is absorbing every syllable. From the moment the two teams had walked into Onigiri Miya minutes ago, an inkling of _something_ had tickled his senses, spurred on by the silly grins Atsumu had directed in one _very_ specific direction, and fueled further by the most innocent of questions - or perhaps, in recent retrospect, not-so-innocent at all.

_“Omi-kun! Why do ya still think Samu’s the only Miya who can cook?”_

He has little context, but when it comes to Atsumu, Osamu’s suspicions are rarely off-the-mark.

“Ah, I’ll make ya some ochazuke then!” He proposes a bit louder than necessary, tempting both a nearby stomach and a further eardrum. “Can’t have ya goin’ home hungry.”

Sakusa’s arm lowers, as does his guard. “Oh. Are you sure?”

“Yep, I made Kageyama somethin’ else, too - remember?” Osamu nods towards the far side of the room, where the Adlers setter has already cleared half his plate.

“Alright, ochazuke sounds good if it’s not too much trouble. Thanks.”

As the sentence finishes, the visible side of Atsumu’s profile twists into a snarl.

Osamu snorts, raising his voice just a tad more.

“I’ll prep it in the back kitchen - no bare hands touchin’ any ingredients, promise.”

Sakusa gives a nod, planting himself ceremoniously upon one of the counterside seats. And as Osamu moves towards the more secluded enclosure, Hinata’s boisterous voice sounds from behind.

“Where’re you going, Atsumu-san?”

“I--um,” Despite having his back turned, Osamu can practically see Atsumu’s stumble, one of his classic tells for poorly thought-out excuses. “I remembered seein’ somethin’ I wanted in a shop next door. Just wanna check it out...be right back!”

As soon as Osamu enters the private area, a mental countdown starts.

_Ten, nine, eight, seven…_ The number barely reaches three when his uninvited but predictable guest barges through the rear door.

Atsumu has a back-up key, of course, for emergencies.

This is no emergency.

“The hell are ya doin’ here? Ya know this is off-limits, Tsumu.”

“Even to yer brother??” His rowdy counterpart protests, a defiant grain of rice still attached to his chin.

“Are ya an _employee?”_ Osamu taps at the logo on his cap. “If not, then--”

Atsumu’s eyes dart around briefly, and soon lights up before grabbing an apron from a nearby hook. The act of sporting it proves swift, like he’s already more than familiar with the garment’s whims. “There. Ya don’t even have ta pay me.”

“Let me rephrase, Tsumu.” There is a mental note of his brother’s newly-acquired skill, before Osamu starts to select from his array of tea leaf tins. “ _Why_ are ya in here?”

“I just...wanna see what yer doin’.”

“Exactly what ya heard out there.” His right hand waves around the final choice, sending its loose contents gently knocking against metal. “I’m makin’ yer teammate somethin’ special.” 

Osamu turns then, choosing to commence the recipe rather than gauge his brother’s intentions. But no additional guesses prove necessary, for soon there is a restless presence peeking over his shoulder, far too close for a chef’s comfort.

“Um, Samu...can _I_ try ta make it? Maybe with ya supervisin’?”

Leaves halt their fall into the pot below, and whatever autumn warmth had remained upon Osamu’s face also freezes like imminent winter.

“Why would ya--”

His eyes fall upon setter hands in a rare, unsettled state, fidgeting nonstop with the cloth of the apron.

“Omi-kun is picky-- _prickly_ -level picky. But I think I know...what flavors he likes?” With every random crease added comes one more bit of context, though never the whole truth.

“No. That ain’t it.” Osamu dissents, and moves the tin further out of his twin’s reach.

_“Okay,_ okay.” Atsumu clears his throat, giving way to a quickly-enunciated flood of words. “At the team season openin’ party, I brought some homemade yakisoba that I accidentally burned a bit of...and of course, I served Omi-kun one of the burnt parts on accident. Ever since then, he said if he wanted to eat cookin’ from a Miya, it’d _never ever_ be me. Can ya _believe_ the nerve?”

_Well, he made the right decision._ Osamu nearly shares aloud. “So instead of arguin’ with him, ya’ve been tryin’ to cook for him ever since?”

“Yah! But he never accepts anythin’ I offer. Even runs away as soon as he smells it!” The knot upon Atsumu’s forehead clenches. “I even made curry once and had Shouyou-kun pretend it was his work...but somehow... _somehow_ Omi-kun knew.”

In Osamu’s recollections, his twin is not a bad cook, but dreadfully careless - never one to obey the often tedious steps involved in the art of Japanese cuisine. Cuts of raw fish? At random thicknesses and never precise. Water temperature? Gauged with his naked eye alone somehow. Amount of seasoning? Haphazardly measured with three pinched fingers - and often much too excessive. Unlike the careful nature at which he measures his tosses, everything connected to a stove has never been prioritized in Atsumu’s life.

No wonder the yakisoba had been burnt.

“So trickin’ Sakusa with this ochazuke is...yer idea of a last resort?”

“I just wanna to get the upper hand for once!” Dejection forms across already exaggerated features, growing deeper as he blabbers on. “If Omi-kun likes somethin’ he _thinks_ ya made, but it turns out to be from _me_ \- then he can’t judge _anythin’_ of mine ever again! Ya see??”

Osamu does see. He sees bizarre 4D chess moves coupled with excessive logic, and a plan that may result in no tangible victories. Moreover, he sees exactly how the gears in Atsumu’s mind have always spun, and how no momentum is capable of reversing the rotations.

“Fine.” He releases any hold, letting the cogs run free. “I only have the rice prepped. The rest is all yers.”

With the energy of a gleeful child, Atsumu dives in, grabbing for the tin to start. To Osamu’s surprise, he reaches for a measuring spoon next, tapping bits of tea leaf into minute collections before dumping each into the pot.

“Ya know, Samu, I never liked ochazuke that much myself.” The admission comes right before the third spoon fills. “Who even wants the flavors of tea and sushi rice together? Blech.”

The claim is accurate in Osamu’s memory. They may share the same genes, but this particular dish had always been a point of contention. Unlike their skirmishes over pudding or other favorites, he could always expect to get extra helpings of ochazuke whenever its aroma filled their family home, for Atsumu would avoid it like the plague.

But now, his brother is demonstrating clear experience with the dish, hinting that his earlier claims of knowing Sakusa’s - knowing _“Omi-kun”’s_ \- preferences had been honest.

“Then again, just ‘cuz I dun’ like to eat it, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy makin’ it delicious for someone else, right?” Atsumu straightens with a smile, accomplished yet almost shy as he completes the first step. “I get how ya feel about bein’ a chef now. It’s like... _every_ dish can be somethin’ special.”

_Somethin’ special...maybe for_ someone _special?_ Osamu muses, and feels that Atsumu is mulling a similar thought.

As boiling water fills the pot, it’s coupled with the careful, languid stir from another spoon. Osamu hasn’t seen his brother so vigilant since many years ago, when the sound of a volleyball bouncing off walls and palms was the norm in both their daily routines. This very second, the same attention to detail graces the simple process of brewing _hōjicha._ Practiced nuance displays in Atsumu’s every movement, as if he had long been preparing for this day - this game of sorts that he intends to win.

“Where’s yer salmon? And rubber gloves?”

Osamu moves on instinct, drawing out his canister of fresh fish from one shelf, and a store-bought box from another. By the time he returns to Atsumu’s side, they’re both positioned behind the grill, its charcoal already fired up.

The room heats, smoldering with the same purpose now burning in honey brown eyes. As with the tea, there is palpable care in the way Atsumu handles his selected piece of salmon. Its reddish orange first morphs rose, then near charring before its overseer exposes a different angle to flame.

The gloves slip on as soon as the grilling concludes, and Osamu doesn’t even mind that one of his precious knives is suddenly being held by another. The new hands swerve and manipulate with immense focus, cutting across cooked bits of pink delicately, precisely - until all that remains is a perfect mince.

“Why are ya starin’ so hard?” The inevitable question arises, before Osamu can finish comprehending his brother’s newfound finesse.

“Ya _told_ me to supervise.” This time, he is the one conjuring up a logical excuse. “But I didn’t realize ya can already cook... _this_ way nowadays.”

“‘This way?’ Ya mean...not makin’ a whole mess of it?” Atsumu smirks. “I’ve been studyin’, a lot. ‘N now I’m just tryin’ to make sure everythin’ looks like yer work.”

“Right.” Brows quirk on reflex. _Exactly how many hours of YouTube has he watched?_

Oblivious to the sarcasm, Atsumu wanders to the shelf of bowls, deliberating upon the options for ages before choosing a ceramic in beautifully polished black. From the nearby wooden bucket, he gathers an impeccably shaped scoop of rice, pressing its form into the bowl’s base. The process is neat as can be, regardless of the rice’s imminent fate of being submerged and consumed.

It’s the art of an ideal presentation, for a meal prepared with ideal measures, and, perhaps, meant for the ideal recipient. Altogether, Atsumu curates this temporary ideal, like delivering the optimal set for a single spike. But it’s also an ideal that ends in more permanent satisfaction, like scoring a point - or discovering a second life goal finally worth chasing.

“So...Sakusa, huh?” Osamu breathes deep as he figures out said goal, and dares to ask.

“What ‘bout him?” His twin questions in reverse, while physically reversing back towards the minced salmon.

“Since when?”

“When what?”

No further attention is given to Osamu’s original question, as every focus now directs towards the fish flakes snowing into the bowl. As the bits collect at the dead center of pearl white grains. Atsumu’s lips fold into a stiff seam, but it still fails to hide the curve of his smile.

“...never mind.” Osamu relents, his own smile looming.

The _hōjicha_ comes next, well-brewed and steaming in the most tedious pour over, a stream of translucent brown following a consistent, circular path. As liquid rises within the bowl, Osamu recalls Atsumu’s earlier distaste for the contradiction of this dish, the rice’s hints of sour drenched by bittersweets, always culminating in a ruthless battle above taste buds. But when savored gradually, he knows the combination to be an umami, a balanced togetherness - two clashing flavors finding harmony.

_Flavors, personalities. Same thing, really._

“Count me impressed, Tsumu.” He makes a rare admission for what is truly deserved. “I can tell ya’ve been practicin’ a lot.”

“Mm.” Atsumu mumbles, barely acknowledging the compliment. “One last touch left…”

A sleight of hand brings a plastic package to the forefront, and Osamu catches the familiar spherical shapes within, sizable both in diameter and flavor.

“Ya bring those around in yer pocket??”

“Yeah?” Atsumu shrugs, reaching for a fresh pair of chopsticks. “Kinda an acquired taste, but they’re pretty good to snack on.”

“Well, they definitely work as toppin’ for ochazuke.” Osamu’s well-trained, customer-always-comes-first attitude exposes itself. “But does... _Sakusa_ actually like ‘em?”

His brother scoffs, fully incredulous. “Pfft, these are his favorite things in the world! I think of Omi-kun every time I see ‘em at a store.”

_Oh, he’s more whipped than I thought._

Atsumu relocates a single plum, its placement adjusted, then readjusted, akin to the perfect calibration of his aims on the court. He echoes the action with a scoop of sesame seeds, tapping a few at a time into precise spots across the amassed ingredients.

At last, when every position finds finality, the edible garnish becomes a prime showcase of his patience and commitment.

“Hmph, Omi-kun will _definitely_ like it now.”

“Ya mean the dish? Or…”

With one hasty movement that cuts off Osamu’s tease, the apron separates from Atsumu’s large frame. What doesn’t leave, however, is the sense of pride emanating throughout him, from expression atop to his stance below.

“Yer turn, now, Samu! Play the part well, ya hear?” A finger points with wordless instruction, embodying the same telepathy they had used as teammates.

Osamu releases an obliging sigh, even returning his twin’s high five as he approaches the finished dish. Up close, the basic recipe looks straight out of a cookbook photoshoot - no element out of place, no detail overlooked.

In the midst of his admiration, Atsumu has already reached the rear exit, prepared to continue their charade from the front stage.

“Job well done, Tsumu.” Osamu calls out sincerely as he detects the door swing.

“Ya think so?”

“For me, yes.” He assures, but quickly lowers the volume of his voice to near mute. “And we’ll see about the object of yer affection...soon.”

The latch clicks shut, and Osamu snaps back to chef mode, gingerly placing the bowl upon a tray without disturbing its contents. As he flanks both sides with utensils, his mind replays all the tedious steps taken to perfect this ochazuke, the way they had resembled how he himself would cook for Atsumu on the daily. Despite all their external conflicts, there had always been unspoken love buried within each ingredient, and undying loyalty steeped in the entire process.

Suddenly, he’s overcome with relief, knowing that his twin seems to have found those very things with someone else.

_I wish ya luck, Tsumu._

As Osamu reenters the dining area, Atsumu also stumbles through the entrance of the restaurant, feigning a quick conversation with Hinata about the non-existent shop visit. Before long, he plants himself at the counter, a calculated two seats away from the unsuspecting Sakusa.

“Here ya go.” The tray lands at its destination, while two brothers exchange a knowing glance. “One _very_ special order of ochazuke.”

Sakusa’s face is unreadable at first, his scrutiny of the food as intense as any professional critic’s. To his left, Atsumu’s stare builds its own intensity, and Osamu can only hope that look goes unnoticed.

“Thanks.” The spiker mutters at last, with no attempt to hide his qualms. “Nothing in this was touched by bare hands?”

Osamu folds both arms, giving thorough confidence. “Nope. This was made with...the _utmost_ care.”

Sakusa stills, as if confused by the unusual tone of the remark. But a trusting nod follows soon after, and his fingers give the accompanying chopsticks a habitual grasp. In time, the first assortment of soaked rice, salmon, and plum makes its way upward, passing through previously stoic lips.

Atsumu inches ever closer, an embodiment of anticipation, and Osamu thinks that all background noise has likely faded from his brother’s eardrums.

Right in front of him, however, is a much less expected fadeaway: the disappearance of detachment from Sakusa’s face, triggered by his very first, testing chew. Even before the inevitable gulp, dark features already twist into pleasant surprise, and a second later, the contortion becomes one of pure indulgence.

“Mm.” A whimper - perhaps too soft to be detected by Atsumu - almost escapes in its entirety, but it is cut short by notable self-control.

“How is it?” Osamu questions, hoping to earn something more audible for his twin to hear.

“It’s...very good, especially with the plums.” As he answers, Sakusa beams - _beams_ \- in the rarest of sights. “Thank you.”

_It’s very good, because Tsumu put his entire heart into it._ “My pleasure.”

From the corner of his eye, Osamu spies a similar joy overwhelm Atsumu’s face. It’s a pure happiness coupled with touches of relief, as if accepting that infinite hours of video tutorials and effort had been more than worthwhile. Nevertheless, there is no attempt to verbalize any such emotions; only his brother’s serene appreciation of the moment, akin to Sakusa’s own enjoyment of the next bites.

As quickly as tea had filled the bowl minutes ago, the rest of the dish depletes while two pairs of eyes observe their lone customer. The latter gives no sign of recognition, until only a few sips of liquid remain.

“You know, it’s strange.” A handkerchief dabs at the corner of previously silent lips, below a gaze aiming downward. “I could tell the plum used in this was my favorite kind, but I’ve only ever told one person in this room that.”

Osamu’s entire frame stiffens - not due to his own nerves, but rather the inherent link between him and the third person in this interlude. At once, color begins to drain from Atsumu’s cheeks, and there’s a weak attempt to slip away unnoticed before the next words pin him in place.

“The same guy probably also thinks that I couldn’t smell the _hōjicha_ from his clothes, when he sat down.”

With that, Sakusa twists his torso to the left, a delivered stare all accusation and leaving no more room for poor excuses. Osamu watches the recipient sputter, his recently greyed face now flashburning to a radiant rose.

Wordlessly, the most observant of them all turns back to his nearly complete meal, lifting the bowl for some finishing sips.

“You’ll never get the upper hand on me, you know.” He states in between.

Ironically - _or perhaps, naturally,_ Osamu amends for himself - the challenge is what revives Atsumu’s willpower. With renewed morale, a bulky body slides nearer, not merely stopping at the neighboring seat, but eliminating all proximity.

“Ya ate it all, though, Omi-kun.” The snide tease drifts from a mouth far too close to an ear. “So _I_ still won in the end.”

“I was hungry.” Sakusa responds mildly as the bowl lowers, unmoved by the new intimacy on the surface. But Osamu’s sharp perception notices his grip, tightening ever-so-slightly around black ceramic.

There is a pause of surprise, before Atsumu’s cunning smirk transforms into the most earnest grin. “What about the next time yer stomach growls, then? Can I make this for ya again?”

“No...”

Decline aside, a second metamorphosis takes place right then, and Osamu sees, for the very first time, not _Sakusa,_ but the _Omi-kun_ that has monopolized his brother’s words as of late. With the acid tongue of Sakusa tamed, Omi-kun’s smile is curious, gentle, and possibly saved for a lone, lucky person in this world.

“...but you can make me something else, if you want.”

A brightness glimmers in the midst of honey brown, hopeful. Almost too hopeful.

“Even...yakisoba?”

“No. Anything but that, please.”

_At least, ya can only get better from botched noodles._ Osamu thinks, and muses how he is actually bearing witness to the creation of a second ochazuke. In front of him is that exact unusual blend of tea and rice - two opposing flavors at the precipice of a wonderful fusion, but still ignorant to the resulting umami others can already taste.

“Alright, Omi-kun.” Atsumu’s grin is wide as can be now, vinegar sour shifting sweet as he relishes in the turn of events. “I promise I’ll make ya somethin’ else any time ya want...if ya want.”

Sakusa nods once behind that smile, his own bitter exterior now delectable.

_They both_ want, _alright._

As he collects the tray, careful to not disturb this ongoing blend, Osamu knows he can expect endless culinary questions for the indefinite future. But even if his incoming texts and calls become a bombardment, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he _will_ want to play chef to this new recipe.

The first messages he receives the next day, however, reinforce that he’s only at step one.

  
 _Samu, help me_  
 _I think I’m starting to like_ _  
ochazuke D:_

**Author's Note:**

> This consisted of two “First Times”: the first time Atsumu properly cooks for Kiyoomi, and the first time Kiyoomi properly tastes Atsumu’s food.
> 
> Happy SakuAtsu Fluff Week and thank you again for reading! [You can find me on Twitter here](https://twitter.com/_mika60_) and/or interact with [the fic tweet](https://twitter.com/_mika60_/status/1360637670221877248)!


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